it is too much to say i am closer somehow to this
nothing everwhere
yet I can see
in hindsight
how things shift from then to when
how four turns to five than to three
how trees grow overnight
and vanish as hasty
this house is ours
thye say in croaking whispers
the one you only notice
one day a month
darkened window
that only looks out
from a block somewhere so
elsewhere
elsewhen
i cannot count
numbers lie
caught in an account
rattling abacus
of cracked bone
